Father?
by Lukeprism
Summary: Lucas and Flint aren't on the best of terms. Lucas wants this to change. Incest, non-explicit molestation, mild cursing. Don't like? Don't read. Indefinite hiatus.
1. I am a Horrible Boy

_**A/N: Before we get into this, I'd like to say it again.**_

WARNINGS: HOMOSEXUAL FATHER/SON INCEST, MENTIONS OF NON-EXPLICIT MOLESTATION, perhaps some OOC moments and mild language.

Okaydesuka? If you haven't already hit the back button in disgust, please, by all means, read on.

DISCLAIMER: Characters and universe belong to Shigesato Itoi/Nintendo. I own none of it.

—**s—t—a—r—t—f—i—c—t—i —o—n—**

I know I should hate him.

Anyone else would.

I know that I should have contacted the authorities, told a friend, a friend's parents, someone, anyone. I know I should try and stay as far away from him as possible, should make him feel guilty, make him feel like a bastard.

But I can't. I love him.

He's my father. That goes without saying.

He _already_ feels like a dirty bastard, he _already_ spaces himself from me, he _already_ assumes I hate him, and that I just put up a casual front so as to not hurt his feelings.

I know he's at fault, and I know what he did was beyond wrong.

But I forgave him a long time ago.

When Mom and Claus died, he didn't know how to cope. He would lose himself in his grief, shuddering and crying for hours at a time, and that only made the then-eleven-year-old me even sadder (which was pretty damn sad). I tried to comfort him, but that didn't work. He did things like chop firewood or repeatedly slice up vegetables to release his anger and sorrow, but that hardly did the trick, either. He then turned to his newfound solution: alcohol.

He used to drink so much he'd pass out for days. It scared me. I couldn't bear to lose him; he was (and still is) the only family I have left. I never talked to him about it. What was I supposed to say? I couldn't tell him to stop; he's a grown man, he can do as he pleases.

He would fly into a drunken rage every once in a while. Chairs were thrown, bottles were shattered, walls were punctured. He even threw our dog, Boney across the room once, luckily landing on one of our love seats. Boney hasn't come in the house since. I was so scared that he'd kill the dog, or even begin to hit me. He not once ever attempted to harm me, though, for which I was thankful.

But one night, he didn't go rage mode.

I had decided to go to bed quickly, so I wouldn't have to put up with it when it started. But ten minutes later, he came up, too. Sat in the chair next to my bed, something he nor anyone had done in ages. He started to brush through my thick blonde hair with his fingers. I remember being afraid he would suddenly rip my hair out or something violent like that, but he stayed tender and light, so I ended up falling asleep to the sensation.

The next night he did the same thing, almost like it relieved him of pent-up stress. With that thought in mind, I gladly let him do it. After a few nights he would move around. He'd stroke my cheek with his thumb. He'd rub my arms up and down. He'd run his hands up and down my clothed torso. I didn't mind too much; if I meant his sobriety, I was more than happy to comply.

However, then there came the one night he came up completely wasted.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. His breath absolutely reeked of alcohol, and it made me squirm. His hands wasted little time that night; within minutes they were under my thin pajama shirt, brushing against my bare skin. I gasped at the feeling. He continued to push his boundaries, going up until he reached my nipples. I threw my head to one side when he began to massage them. I knew that whatever he was doing was _morally wrong and completely inappropriate_, but...it felt nice.

His hands ghosted down, down to the band of my pajama pants. I squirmed more, hoping he'd stop there, but he didn't. When his fingers so much as grazed the tip of my...well, _y'know_, I flinched violently, but that didn't deter him either. One hand cupped my face while the other continued its exploits down there. I was scared and confused. This was wrong, right? Why did it feel..._good_? I couldn't very well fight back, for two reasons: one, I was nowhere near strong enough to push him away. Two, I...didn't _want_ to.

This went on until I finally let out a strangled cry of gibberish and collapsed back onto the sheets, completely exhausted. My father said nothing, opting instead to caress my face once, twice, three times, before he stood up and wobbled his way to the stairs and down once more. My mind was reeling, a thousand jumbled thoughts and emotions swirling around inside my head, and I didn't do much after that. I just laid there, crying silently for whatever reason, and fell asleep soon after.

He did that the next night, and the next night, and the night after that, too. I know I should have run away or something, told someone and gotten the hell out of there. But I _didn't_. For a while he had done nothing but brood by himself, much less interact with me. It made me feel..._loved_. In such a wrong way, I know, but loved nonetheless. Because of that, I'm just as much to blame as he is.

But then one day he just stopped. Stopped everything altogether; the drinking, the touching, the now-occasional raging. He wouldn't dare to so much as look at me. He just spent the time he was inside silently gazing out the window, looking at nothing. I was so happy for him, but at the same time confused. What had gotten through to him? Perhaps it was me? And why wouldn't he talk? Also me? But it was infinitely better than the previous way of life, so I didn't dare question him about it, lest he revert to his old ways.

It's been three years since then. Seldom a day has gone by without me thinking back to all that. I guess that makes me a horrible person, huh? I don't even _try_ to forget. Father has slowly started to talk to me again during all that time. We can hold near-ten-minute-long conversations now! I spend nearly all my spare time out walking around the outskirts of town with Boney. I know it all like the back of my hand. Sometimes my friend Fuel will join me; we have fun together, joking and racing around and just talking.

Am I a lonely fourteen-year-old? Not really. I have everyone that I really need in my life, Mom and Claus notwithstanding. But I really wish Dad would just _talk_ to me. No matter how hard I try to keep a nonchalant, idle conversation, he eventually lapses into a silence that I don't dare break again. I can't work up the courage to tell him that I love him.

One would think that to be an easy task, right, telling your dad you loved him? I'm...not so sure. I don't know if...if it's...platonic anymore.

_Appalling. __**Horrible**__. You're unbelievable. You horrid, __**disgusting**__ child, Lucas. Why must you think such __**sinful**__ things?_ They make me squirm, the thoughts that go through my head sometimes. But I know that that voice, my conscience, is right. It's wrong, _so_ wrong, so _unspeakably unacceptable _that I can't even bring myself to consider it for more than a few seconds at a time.

But then, as if that's not already bad enough, I go and try to justify it to myself. He's my father, and therefore I _trust_ him more than anyone else. If anyone was going to treat me right, it was him. Disregarding his prior alcohol problem. And it...it had _felt good_. It had felt good, I hadn't spoken out against it, he hadn't done anything super duper holy-shit-did-you-seriously-just-hurt-him bad, and it had been under the influence. It was only natural to want to feel good. Now, because I was older and able to make decisions like that for myself, it wasn't quite as bad as previous iterations of the event. Right?

Right?

But it terrified me, knowing that Dad most likely hadn't been serious, and even if so, he would definitely disapprove and distance himself tenfold after all this time. It also terrified me, knowing that this was about the worst sin someone could possibly commit, loving thy father in such an intimate way. Mom and Claus were up there, watching me deal with this in cold, suffocating isolation. What would Mom have thought? If she had been there, though, none of this mess would have even happened.

But even more than that, I want my father to feel comfortable around me again. I can't stand the silence anymore. I understand his actions, but if he really wants me to feel safe, then he needs to move on and...

...well, that's like asking him to forget it ever happened, I guess. And that's no good either. I don't quite know what I want, to be honest. I want a father, but I also want...

._..no, no. No no NO no __**no**__. You __**filthy**__-minded child, Lucas, you must stop this at once. Unbelievable, it is indeed, __**why are you even here?**_ I know, I know! I can't help it. I'm such a bad person. Sometimes I wish I had died instead of Claus. Claus wasn't horrible and disgusting. Claus would make Dad proud, much more proud than he would be—is—of crybaby Lucas. That's not selfish too, is it? I can never do any right.

I guess neither of us ever got over their deaths. Half of me is gone, the better half, and Dad lost his soul mate. We're both victims here, though; doesn't that mean we can help each other through it? Like we should have been from the beginning?

That's it, then. I have to talk to him, because he won't ever talk to me on his own. Regardless of what he regrets, regardless of what I want, we need to get past this. All of it. It's for the best, isn't it? Maybe then I'll stop having these weird dreams, the ones about Dad and I...

_You're going to Hell, you __**sickening**__ boy._

...I know.

—**e—n—d—c—h—a—p—t—e—r—**

_**A/N: I'd like some feedback, please. This chapter feels...like it's missing something? I don't know what, however. Any corrections and suggestions also muy appreciated. Also, yeah, this will have multiple parts. Woo.**_

As for flames: COME AT ME, BROS. I already warned you twice, so if you still read it after that, it's on you. But I'd love to see what you have to say. Keep in mind I already know how...unorthodox this is.

Thanks for reading~. C:


	2. We Come to Terms

_**DISCLAIMER: I *click* don't own a-BZZT-anything in this *whirr* fanfiction written purely for th-th-the lulz.**_

—**s—t—a—r—t—c**—**h**—**a**—**p**—**t—e**—**r—**

You know, never has it been so hard for me to talk to him.

When it's about something mundane or lame like that, it's easy to strike up a little conversation while we happen to be in the same room. Dad talks back like a good sport and it's all fine and dandy for a couple of minutes, like nothing had ever happened between us. The conversation usually dies pretty soon after, but at least it's something, and at least it's not difficult.

But right now, it's very hard.

I swallowed what saliva was left in my throat, staring at my father's slouched form, gazing out the window like he so often did, no doubt thinking about the dead half of our family. That was all I ever saw anymore, his back. What did his face look like again? He had had a mustache, I remember that much. I wiped my forehead. Why was it hot in here? Was it just me? My fingers twitched. I was anxious. _Hurry up and say something, you dummy._

But...what? What was I supposed to say? How was I supposed to start this? _Dad, you're being a pussy. Stop thinking about the past and man up._ That was stupid and uncalled for. I never had been good at talking in general, let alone about such a touchy subject as this. I didn't even know for sure how he would react. Would he be enraged? Sad? Indifferent? Some part of me was afraid that he would go hack to drinking.

But I couldn't do it anymore. I was done ignoring our problems and living all but isolated from each other.

I missed my father so much.

It was this thought that liberated me as I slowly moved toward him, feet shuffling awkwardly but with purpose. This silence could not go on. If he knew of or noticed my approach, he did not show it, not moving a muscle as I stopped not four inches behind him, taking a moment to look out his window myself. There were trees. And a couple of rocks. I wondered for a moment what about it was so mesmerizing.

A shaking finger tapped him on the shoulder. "Dad," I started, voice surprisingly level. "Can we talk?"

He flinched a little when I touched him, obviously having not expected that. But after a minute's silence he obliged me. "Sure, son."

He didn't turn his head at all. I took a shaky breath, summoning all of my courage and resolve. "How...how are you, Dad?" I finally spoke lamely, mind drawing blanks. _God, you suck at this._

Dad's expression was invisible to me. I couldn't see what he was thinking, and that combined with the silence that followed was enough to scare me. _He doesn't want to talk, does he?_

But eventually he did answer me. "I'm doing fine, son," he replied, making no efforts to move from his position. "And you?"

The counter-question caught me off guard, because he usually never asked me anything in return, but I managed to answer within a respectable amount of time. "Oh, I'm...I'm okay."

It's silent again. Damn.

_**Horrid**__ child, using such profanity._

Stupid voice. I ignore it, clearing my throat once again. It's clear that he's not going to say anything more. "Dad," I try again, "Mom and Claus are dead."

This makes him flinch. Definitely an unexpected observation from crybaby Lucas. He remained silent for a long moment, during which I was scared he would be angry with me for saying something so true, so blunt, like rubbing salt into the wound. But he answered calmly, still gazing out his little window. "Yes, son, they are."

"...a-and they're not coming back."

"No, son, they're not."

I stared at the back of his head dumbfounded. My attempt at making him react had failed; he was still as calm as ever. So maybe that wasn't the problem? The silence stretched on as I struggled to form a coherent sentence in my head before muttering it aloud. "Yeah, so...you...we...I-I know I'm not the son you wanted, Dad, but I'm here, you know, and I just wanted you to know that you don't have to deal with all this yourself," I offered, saying that last bit extremely fast and clasping my hands together. "We're all we have left, y'know? I'm sorry I'm not Claus, but I'll do my best to be the son you want!"

I could see the muscles in his back tense noticeably, and I swallowed nervously. Reminding him that I'd never live up to par was probably a bad idea, but truths needed to be said. We'd been so separated emotionally for so long, so close yet so far...our little family needed reestablishment. I took a cautious step back when Dad finally turned to look at me, and very hesitantly did I meet his wide-eyed gaze. His expression was actually something other than a deadpan? Success. "What gave you the idea that I never wanted you?" he asked, voice horrified.

My eyes went wide in return. Did that mean...I had been _wrong_? Not that that was a bad thing, of course, but... I fidgeted beneath his gaze, the intensity of the stare making it difficult for me to breathe. "W-well, he was always so much more..._brave_, Claus was. Stronger and faster and cooler, too. Anyone would choose him over me." It was rather funny; even years after his death, I was still living in my brother's shadow.

He took this in for a moment, thinking hard before his expression softened. "Lucas, don't you ever think for a moment that I didn't want you. Claus was a different person; being brave and strong was his thing. You're different, but not necessarily in a bad way. You're my son, Lucas. I care about you."

My eyes narrowed; after three years of tense, virtual silence, it was hard for me to believe something like that. "Do you, though?" I managed to ask, looking away and biting my lip. Did I seriously just say that? "Just when it's convenient?"

Dad's face was incredulous. "What are you—?"

"Don't act like you don't know," I cut him off, shocked at my own gutsiness, my own rudeness. "I...we hardly even know each other anymore. Do you know how long it's been since we've talked about anything other than the weather or the animals, Dad? Three years!" I could feel tears coming on. No, dammit, I couldn't cry now! I stopped talking, blinking furiously.

Dad didn't speak. He didn't move. I didn't dare look at his face, afraid of what I would find. Eventually, after what felt like hours, he stood up from where he sat, chair squealing back and nearly hitting me in the stomach. I stepped back a bit, looking down at the floor now. His boots faced me. My heart was beating fast. What now?

"Lucas," he began, his voice low. "I never really was the talkative one. You know that. I thought you were the same. You never came to talk to me, so I assumed you were doing well enough."

I sighed hard; I knew that. I couldn't deny that part of this was my own fault. "I...I know, Dad, but...did you honestly expect me to approach you? You were avoiding me, I could tell. I...that _hurt_, Dad."

He was silent for another few moments. "You think I liked distancing myself from you, boy? I had to. What else was I supposed to do? I did it for your own good. You...deserve a better father than me."

I paused, stunned at his words before I shook my head slowly, still not raising my noggin enough to look at him. "No," I corrected, my own voice low. "I think I deserve an explanation. Why did you..." I trailed off, struggling for a word. "Why did you molest me?"

I heard more than saw my father freeze, a sharp intake of breath directly following my blunt statement. The air was absolutely void of all sound, the both of us engaged in one of the most unorthodox, serious conversations possible. I felt very self-conscious, like Dad could hear my heartbeat as clearly as I could, _BATHUMP_ing loudly. This was it. The moment of truth.

His feet started moving, walking. They were past me and halfway across the room before I could even raise my head to look at my father's back in utter disbelief. "D-Dad?"

"I...I'm not having this conversation."

My jaw fell open, and one of my eyes twitched. "Wh-_what_?"

He didn't answer that time, instead turning on his heel and heading left, towards the front door. So that was it, then? He was really going to ignore the topic at hand and deny me my answer after I had gone out of my way to try and salvage our severed relationship?

My fists shook with uncharacteristic rage.

Oh _hell_ no.

"Stop!" I screamed at him, the sudden volume deafening to the both of us, who had become all too used to the safe, blinding quiet we surrounded ourselves with. Dad stopped in his tracks, again taken aback by my to-the-point attitude. I exhaled loudly. Good, he's listening. "Look at me, please," I implored him, voice much softer. It took a minute, but he did, rotating his body to face me fully now, the first time he had done so in a very long time. "I'm not going to hold it against you. I just want to know why." I looked at him, willing those stupid, childish tears in my eyes to go away. I knew he could see them, and they weren't helping my point. "Don't you think I deserve that, at least?"

Another drought of speech. My arms were trembling, all traces of my sudden anger having ebbed away. I almost felt bad, asking him such a question, because I know it must've been hard for him to think about it. But I wanted my answer.

I had waited long enough for it, after all.

Dad exhaled deeply. "Lucas..." he began, his voice gruff. "It...it was stupid. It was stupid, it was neglectful, it was horrible...I was stupid. I was drunk." He paused for a moment, eyes flickering to the side. "And I know that isn't an excuse at all, but...it is what it is." My father pulled the tip of his brown hat down, covering his eyes. He really did look resentful when he said it. "It's a little late, but I'm sorry...so sorry."

I stared at him in silence for a moment before I grinned like an idiot. Slowly I walked toward him. He didn't appear too keen on my advancement, but he didn't make to move away, either. "I know you're sorry," I assured, wrapping my thin arms around his middle, feeling warm and fuzzy inside for whatever reason. He smelled good, like the animals, but also like freshly-cut grass and fresh air. I hadn't hugged him in an unfathomably long amount of time...it was nice. "I forgave you a long time ago. I just want you to forgive yourself."

He had originally flinched when I initiated he hug, but slowly, ever so slowly, he hugged me back, his strong arms pulling me into him only slightly more. "...I'm not sure if it's that easy, son, but I'll try," he replied, voice softer than it's usual gruff level. "I promise you, I'll never drink or...do _that_ to you ever, ever again."

I leaned into him, enjoying the warmth. I wanted to to tell him that he didn't have to promise that last one if he didn't want to.

_**Filthy**__, unbelievable little __**wretch**__! What a dreadful, __**sinful**__ thought, a horribly __**unthinkable**__ desire. You __**disgrace**__ your family, Hinawa and Claus included._

In my father's arms, though, I could barely even hear my stupid, undeniably correct conscience over the sound of how happy I was.

—**e**—**n**—**d**—**c**—**h**—**a**—**p**—**t**—**e**—**r** —

_**A/N: And so they make up. Whee. Did anyone think that was too short? It feels a bit short to me, but I'm hesitant to beef it up for fear of losing the angst...or something.**_

Questions/comments/reviews/criticisms/flames always welcome. Just hit that there button down below and give me a word or two. Means a bunch~.

Prolly gonna be one more chapter, I think (not sure whose PoV to use, though. Thoughts?) Until then, fellas. C:  



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